As you open the door, the smell of bacon and single malt scotch hits your nostrils, enveloping you in a blanket of warmth against the brisk evening air. You hear the MBTA B-Line trolley car's bell outside, but even more inviting are the melodic notes of John Coltrane coming from the old jukebox that still plays 45's. You settle into a comfortable barstool, rest your forearms on the antique mahogany bar, and glace up at the TV to see the Red Sox playing the Tampa Bay Rays. "Should be a good game," you think as you remove your jacket.

After wiping the far end of the bar, I flick the towel over my right shoulder. I saunter over, replacing a bottle of Maker's Mark whiskey on the shelf. I nonchalantly tip the brim of my battered Sox baseball cap back a bit, and place a Sam Adams coaster in front of you. "Heya! I'm Oz. Welcome to the Grill. What can I getcha?"

You shift a bit more in the stool, and set your feet on the brass rail near the floor as you glance at the memorabilia and tchotchkes from sports teams and bands that had played at the Bar. Nostalgia sets in, and you think about the rumpus room in your family's home. "Oh, pour me a Newcastle, please." "You got it!," I reply with a smile turning to the taps...

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The universe seems neither benign nor hostile, merely indifferent to the concerns of such puny creatures as we are. -Dr. Car Sagan, Cosmos

As small gem of literature!